


we can sing just like our fathers

by braille_upon_my_skin



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: M/M, modern day AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 09:43:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13715052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braille_upon_my_skin/pseuds/braille_upon_my_skin
Summary: Phillip has no choice but to tell the stranger reading over his shoulder off, employing some select words if the need arises.The moment he spins about to face the heretofore faceless annoyance, however, those select words lodge in his throat with a speed that nearly chokes him.





	we can sing just like our fathers

 

 

Riding the train never proves to be worth Phillip Carlyle's while. Especially not when it's a miserable forty degrees fahrenheit, rain is cascading from a listless gray sky and soaking through his lined wool coat, and he's nursing a terrible hangover.

He could do without having to push past countless bodies, mumbling apologies as he brushes against someone's legs and earns a withering glare, the skull-jarring forward motion of the compartment as the train sets off, and the general noise all around him.

But, the train is his only reliable mode of transportation for his daily commute to New York University, and so, he makes do.

Rubbing at his temples, vague hatred for everything weighing heavily on his chest, he opens his dog-eared copy of Dostoevsky's _The Brothers Karamazov_ , and skims through the bookmarked section to pick up from where he left off last. He is midway through the third paragraph on the page when the sensation of being watched prickles the hairs on the back of his neck. A flash of annoyance heats his bloodstream. He is _not_ in the mood to deal with people, today. Bristling at the unwelcome attention, he asks, _curtly_ , "Excuse me. Do you mind?"

"Oh, my apologies. I just noticed you were at the part where things get really interesting."

The voice, low in timbre, carrying a hint of an accent Phillip can't quite place, punches something in Phillip's stomach. It's like claws being hooked into his flesh as goosebumps break out all over his arms. He wars with himself to resist the temptation to turn around and soak in the stranger's face, match features to that _voice_.

He can't risk giving his parents reason to cut off his inheritance. Not before one of his plays makes it to the mainstream.

But, the irritating stranger is practically breathing down Phillip's neck, each puff of breath sneaking down the collar of Phillip's coat to further agitate his already distressingly stimulated skin. Phillip has no choice but to tell him off, employing some select words if the need arises.

The moment he spins about to face the heretofore faceless annoyance, those select words lodge in his throat with a speed that nearly chokes him.

The man before him is tall, easily towering over Phillip by a good six inches, or more. He has dark eyes- brown, possibly hazel- that seem to twinkle with amusement. He wears a three piece suit and a confident and improbably bright grin, sports a light dusting of greying stubble along his chin and jaw, has high, chiseled cheekbones, a striking nose that downturns at the tip, thick, arched eyebrows and light brown eyelashes, and his hair, also brown, but a much darker shade, nearly black, is styled in gentle waves that would appear messy on anyone else. 

He is, at least, ten years Phillip's senior.

He is also ruggedly, devilishly _handsome_.

And, Phillip's throat dries right up, all traces of annoyance vanishing into the ether.

"You're a fan of Dostoevsky, huh?" The man asks.

Phillip blinks, his jaw falling open but stubbornly refusing to eek out a single sound.

The man chuckles. His eyes are _definitely_ twinkling.

Phillip feels the blood already rising to color his face. "You **…** " He clears his throat, delivering a sharp internal slap to himself. Where is his _dignity_? His parents would be _appalled_. "You've read _The Brothers Karamazov_ , before?"

"And, _Crime and Punishment_. Though, I'm more inclined toward the works of Bradbury, Asimov, and Tolkien." Without any encouragement, obviously not needing it, the man goes on, his voice adopting an enthusiastic lilt, "Classic fantasy and science fiction works have a creative scope unhampered by the boundaries of our present reality. Back in the 1950s, writers envisioned we'd have flying cars and teleportation machines, colonies on other planets. It's almost sad to look back on the high hopes they had for us when facing a world that hardly lives up to their expectations."

Phillip knows that he is staring, blatantly and absolutely gobsmacked. Never in a million years could he have anticipated a total _stranger_ engaging him in an essentially one-sided conversation turned monologue lamenting the shortcomings of the technology of the present when stacked up against the fantastical imaginings of authors from yesteryears. He lets out a short chuff of incredulous laughter. "That sounds like the wistful nostalgic sentiment of a dewy-eyed idealist."

"You say that like it's something to be ashamed of," his obnoxiously alluring stranger says with a subtle tilt of his head, a challenge dancing behind his eyes .

Adrenaline begins to surge, zinging through Phillip's veins. His stomach flips and starts to twist itself into roughly the configuration of a pretzel. "In certain circles I run in, it is."

"And, what might those circles be?"

"I'm an undergrad student at NYU, majoring in English and Literature, and working as a playwright. So, I think I have the credentials to confirm that the mainstream has no place for idealism." He would, indeed, know this to be fact. Any of his own selections that weren't focused on pessimistic deconstructions, apocalyptic views of the current sociopolitical climate, war, famine, pestilence and death; committed to the disintegration of moral values, disdain toward and a discarding of all beauty in the world, and a lowering of his audience's IQs, were glossed right over. _Rejected_. Sending him back to the laptop armed with the first of many bottles of some exotic and exorbitantly _expensive_ imported Scotch.

Rejected like every woman he took back to his penthouse on a drunken whim, only to withdraw from her mid-kiss and ask her to leave when her hands dipped beneath his waistband.

Like the last man who managed to get Phillip backed against a wall in a nightclub, his shirt three buttons open, rough hand sliding up his chest, right before Phillip had to flee, falling over himself to slip every button back into place, because he saw a friend of his parents watching the encounter from across the room.

Like, _Phillip, himself,_ has been too many times to count; the harshest and most recent rejection culminating in him blubbering messily into his best friend, Anne- an angel in human form, if Phillip believed in such fanciful things as angels-'s shoulder.

"It seems like you've surrounded yourself with a lot of cynics," the frustrating stranger muses.

Phillip snorts derisively. "Who _isn't_ a cynic, these days?"

"Mm, you might be surprised to learn that there are still a few romantics out there. You seem to be one, yourself." The man's dark, sapient eyes flicker toward the thick tome still open in Phillip's lap.

Phillip's rebuttal catches in his throat, falling apart syllable by syllable. The man has him.

Scant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, Phillip inquires, "And, what might _your_ credentials be, Mr. Romantic? It isn't everyday I get into debates weighing the validity of cynicism versus romanticism while taking the train home."

The prepossessing stranger returns the smile, his eyes crinkling with an intense mixture of amusement and intrigue that kicks the pace of Phillip's pulse up by several notches. "I don't need credentials to know that listening to the critics is no way to live."

Without warning, the train grinds to a halt.

The vexing stranger glances out the window beside his seat and announces over the dull roar of conversations occurring around them, "This is my stop."

A strange, leaden sensation stirs inside of Phillip as he watches the man unfold himself from his seat and stand upright, making his tall stature all the more evident **…** and _enticing_. Phillip swallows, suddenly feeling very dehydrated.

Smiling broadly, the stranger claps a hand down on Phillip's shoulder, fixing him in his liquid brown gaze. "Thank you for the scintillating conversation."

Phillip's throat, once again, betrays him, the muscles flexing to no avail. English and Literature major, at a loss for words. The man's hand is _warm_ , something greatly appreciated with the frigid air still permeating Phillip's clothing through the gaps in the windows. "The pleasure was all mine," Phillip manages at last, weakly.

With a last disarming grin and a dip of his head, the man swaggers off. Phillip's eyes follow him all the way up the car, to the doors, and then, though he knows he's being impolite, remain trained on the lean, captivating stranger until he disappears from sight.

Phillip's heart flutters against the apple of his throat, his nerves pulsing with an energy he hasn't experienced in months.

As the train pulls away, heading toward its next destination, Phillip attempts to resume reading, but finds his concentration broken as his mind repeatedly strays, replaying the stranger's radiant smile, intense stare, and the stunning warmth of his hand. 

 

.

 

He boards the train the following day with a copy of Kurt Vonnegut's _Slaughterhouse-Five_. Phillip is, in no way, looking forward to another run-in with the vexing stranger. But **…** in the event that the man _does_ sit behind him, again, he's curious to see if his current reading selection will be correctly identified. After all, the man professed an interest in science fiction.

Two paragraphs into the second page, heart beating just a bit faster than normal, Phillip catches movement out of the corner of his eye. Before he can properly react, a tall figure drops into the seat beside him.

His pulse spikes, once more, as _that voice_ washes over him. "Ah, Vonnegut, today, I see."

Phillip closes the book and looks to the man, staring searchingly into his dark eyes. "Have you read _every_ piece of classic literature you could get your hands on?"

"Just about," the man answers with a smirk.

Phillip's breath hitches, a hot, frothy feeling simmering under his skin. He can't decide if he wants to punch the man, or yank at his obnoxiously bright red necktie and pull him down to devour his face.

"Phineas Barnum," the man says, offering Phillip his hand.

Tongue between his teeth, Phillip glances back and forth between the proffered limb and the older man, _Phineas_ 's, dazzling smile. "Phillip," he finally relents, reaching out to shake Phineas's hand. "Carlyle."

"So, Mr. Carlyle **…** " Phineas says, withdrawing his hand to place it in his lap, his smile unfaltering. "What sort of plays do you specialize in?"

Phillip's chest pangs, reeling at the notion that the man actually _remembered_ what he said. And, is genuinely interested. He clears his throat and replies with more confidence than he has ever been able to muster during his meetings with publishers, "Most of my work is underground. Countercultural stuff, focused on challenging the current conventions of art in the mainstream."

"The conventions displease you?"

Phillip crinkles his nose contemptuously. "Everything is _postmodern_. _Postmodernism_ ," he spits the word out, reviling the taste it leaves in his mouth. "It's a plague on the artistic landscape. Nothing matters or has any meaning, anymore. You can pass off a toilet seat as piece of fine artwork and con a curator into displaying it in a museum."

Phineas laughs. "I can see how that might be problematic."

"No one cares about beauty," Phillip goes on, all of his criticisms of the current creative sphere suddenly pouring out of him. "No one cares about telling stories and making works that stand the test of time and impact the way audiences think about the world and themselves."

"Is that the kind of work you're trying to make?" Phineas asks.

All at once, Phillip remembers himself. His parents aren't exactly pleased with how he's been spending his inheritance money. They're looking for any reason to cut him off, and while he eagerly looks forward to the day when one of his plays garners mainstream success and challenges perspectives, the day when he'll have the last laugh as he takes off for a townhouse in Europe- somewhere in Ireland, perhaps- and can produce his own shows without relying on the good word of critics to get his career off the ground **…**   one has to make money to live.

And, making money for Phillip has, all too often, required he sell his soul, forsake his artistic integrity, and cave to popular demand.

"It's the kind of work I'd _like_ to make," he says, grudgingly.

"Then, why aren't you making it?" Phineas tilts his head, angling his upper body toward Phillip's.

"It **…** " Phillip pauses. The quickly decreasing distance between himself and Phineas has just struck him, and heat begins to trickle into his stomach, _below_ his stomach.  "It isn't that simple." 

"It could be. You'd just have to find someone willing to take a chance on you." A beat of silence passes between them, that dark gaze pouring over Phillip's face, scrutinizing.

The train pulls to a stop outside of a cafe, and Phineas asks, "Can I buy you lunch?"

Phillip needs a moment's consideration- should he? What's come over him? He should be heading straight home to work on his newest script. Normally, he would be two tall glasses of rum and a shot of whisky in, the world fuzzy around the edges and his body tingling, happily detached from reality, by now- but _only_ a moment's consideration. He collects his book and his computer bag and follows Phineas off the train.

He tells himself that it's merely intrigue, _fascination_ spurring him as he and Phineas place their orders and take seats opposite one another at one of the cafe's tiny, ornate tables. He's crossed paths with an individual who shares a common interest and happens to be a very charismatic and captivating speaker. It makes sense that they would want to continue their conversation in a more pleasant setting.

The fact that Phineas is irritatingly attractive has nothing to do with it. _Surely_.

Phineas has ordered a hot chocolate topped with whipped cream for his drink, and Phillip stares, incredulous, as he sips at his own black coffee.

"That's a rather plain, dreary choice, isn't it?" Phineas inquires as he sets his mug back on the table, unfazed by Phillip's stares.

Phillip swallows his mouthful and replies, savoring the heat emanating from the glass and the warm shot of caffeine coursing through his system. "I beg your pardon, but I can't function without coffee."

"Yes, but does it have to be ungarnished black?"

"Mr. Barnum." Phillip sets the mug down and leans over it, a wry smile unfurling across his face. "I'm afraid we can't all be as _daring_ as you."

The sardonic tone of Phillip's voice did not go unnoticed, and Phineas smirks, that challenging light reigniting behind his eyes. "I think ' _daring_ ' is all about perspective, Mr. Carlyle." His voice drops to a low, almost _growling_ pitch that reverberates on every wavelength of Phillip's being.

It takes all of Phillip's willpower to keep his body in his seat, and not throw himself at Phineas, latching onto him and assaulting him with a furious barrage of lips, teeth, tongue.

Phineas glances toward the counter, and, observing all of the employees scurrying about the kitchen, he leans in and whispers, his breath hot on Phillip's skin, inciting the biggest outbreak of shiver-laden goosebumps, yet, "Would you like to accompany me to the bathroom?"

Phillip almost _whines_ , heat rushing _instantly_ to his face and below his belt. He can't speak, but Phineas understands, as with another smirk that sends a shock of arousal piercing through Phillip's core, he drapes an arm around Phillip's shoulders and steers him toward the restrooms.

They barely make it past the door before their bodies are crashing together, lips connecting in a bruising storm laced with flashes of gnashing, clicking teeth, thundering heartbeats, and hands roaming freely, tugging, yanking, at clothing to reveal the skin it hides away.

Phineas is licking and biting, surprisingly gently, at a stretch of skin between Phillip's jaw and his neck; an extremely _sensitive_ stretch of skin that has Phillip bunching his hands in the material of Phineas's cardigan, fumbling to slip up under it. Phillip bites down on a moan, wrapping his legs around Phineas's waist, hands scrambling to unknot Phineas's tie as the older man drives him back, back, back **…** until he smacks into a wall.

Phineas breaks off and looks Phillip over, his brows knitting. "Christ, I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Phillip insists, ignoring the smarting pain in his lower back.

"Phillip, we don't have to do this if you-- "

Phillip cuts him off by slipping his index fingers into the belt loops of Phineas's dress slacks and pulling the man's waist into his. Simultaneous moans ascend from both of them. "I'm _fine_ ," he repeats. He fixes Phineas in an intent stare, relishing the desire dilating the man's pupils, and says in a low voice teeming with the voracious hunger pulsing through him, "I'll be even better if you resume what you were doing, and _don't stop_."

Smirking, Phineas lets out an amused hum and bites at the shell of Phillip's ear, kissing an open-mouthed trail to his collarbone. "Maybe I should buy you flowers, first." His hand slides under Phillip's shirt after freeing it from the waistband of his dress pants, and teases the toned, flushed skin on Phillip's abdomen.

A pleased growl rumbles, low, in Phillip's throat, and he winds his legs around Phineas, aligning their pelvises.

"Take you out to dinner." The proposition is punctuated by a sharp bite to Phillip's collarbone and a strong hand tangling in his hair, tugging at his scalp.

Phillip has to swallow the moan that swells within him.  "That-That can wait."

"But, isn't traditional romanticism the ultimate antithesis to postmodern cynicism?" Phineas knows damn well what he's doing. Phillip can hear the snicker underlining his question, feel the puffs of laughter against his bared skin, and he is _far_ too turned on to entertain another debate about this subject.

 "Why don't you fuck me?" He grits out, pressing his hips as hard and as far forward as he can, watching with a rush of self-gratification as Phineas's muscles tighten in an effort to suppress his own moan. "And then we can find out?"

For once, it is _Phillip_ who has the upper hand, and he _revels_ in it. 

 

.

 

The waitress, a very curvy woman with curly brunet hair pulled into a high ponytail, kind eyes, and a broad smile, eyes them with a knowing smirk curling her lips as they emerge from the bathroom; hair mussed, faces pink, and clothing rumpled. "Gentlemen, your food has been ready for fifteen minutes, now," she says, pointing toward their table with her pen.

"Thank you," Phillip and Phineas murmur, Phineas dipping his head in a nod and Phillip flushing as the waitress's smirk widens.

"He's a cutie, Phin. Where'd you pick him up?"

Phillip turns to Phineas and whispers, bewildered, "She _knows_ you?"

"I'm a regular costumer," Phineas replies. He smiles back at the woman and brings his arm to a rest on Phillip's back, rubbing at the bruise no doubt forming there.

Phillip's chest constricts.

Nurturing aftercare. This is certainly a change up from what he's used to.

Phillip spares the waitress a last glance, taking in the name on the tag pinned to her shirt- Lettie- as Phineas guides him back to their table.

He is satisfyingly sore and fatigued, but still charged with an buoyant energy that he's certain exists _because_ of the man sitting across from him. As they chat about the religious symbolism present in C.S. Lewis's _Chronicles of Narnia_ series, and whether or not this symbolism adds anything to the material, Phillip decides that a deviation from his normal routine wasn't such a hindrance, after all, if it means that a conductor of such vitality, Phineas Barnum, is the one shaking things up.

He takes a sip of hot chocolate after some extremely persistent encouragement from Phineas, and resolves that he really _is_ a traditional romantic, after all.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by a Tumblr post containing an extensive list of Alternate Universe prompts for an OTP, specifically: "I read in the train every morning and would you please stop reading over my shoulder?" 
> 
> I took a few minor artistic liberties with it, and potentially modes of transportation in present day New York (as well as the state's geographical layout), but I hope it resulted in an enjoyable read, nonetheless. 
> 
> The title is a lyric from "Come On Eileen", by Dexys Midnight Runners, which is, in and of itself, a romantic classic.


End file.
